Bloodred Roses
by Monotonic Rainbow
Summary: It's happening again. A Selection to bind the country, rallying the nation against its demise of crippling debt and the prospect of war. Prince Ashton James Schreave invites thirty-five ladies to his palace to fight for his heart and to try and heal his country, but what's inside the palace walls might be more dangerous than what's out. A SYOC, 23/35!
1. Chapter 1

**Hi there! I'm Rainbow, and this is my SYOC. Anyways, this is the first chapter to kind of give you an idea of the dynamic of the story so far, and details about submitting girls will be at bottom. Not much else to say, so here ya go!**

 **I don't own the Selection series and I never will (sadly). All I own is my own characters and this writing.**

 **This chapter is in the point of view of the Crown Prince Ashton James Schreave.**

* * *

Quite frankly, Illéa was falling apart.

It started with just a couple bad investments. We threw fourteen billion dollars away doing a ton of mineral trades with Swendway, which ended up not profiting our country at all- mainly due to the lab-created chemical substitutes that were now taking over the manufacturing industry. We tried to update the parliament buildings in the centre of each province, but the architect who created the buildings obviously had a couple flaws in his designs- the front hall of all but two of the buildings collapsed and were pretty much ruined. A couple more failed trades lost us a staggering fifteen-digit sum of money. From there, it only got worse- bad decision after bad decision made by my father, King Gregory Jackson the Third and his increasingly flustered advisers put the country in what was most bluntly described as crippling debt.

Our situation didn't improve over the next year and a half- currently, we were in debt to six different countries (including Germany, England, South Africa, France, Swendway and Indochina), all of which were getting increasingly frustrated with their fact that we were not paying back the massive amounts of money we owed them. War was a looming threat on the horizon, and protesters and media made their opinions known- they wanted my father and his advisers out of the position of power. They wanted a new king.

It wasn't that my father was a bad king- in his early years, he had done a lot of good for Illéa! But he was a little slow on the uptake and a bit too proud to admit his mistakes, let alone make any attempt to reconcile them. This led to frustration within the country and the common desire for someone new to take the throne, which wasn't really an option based on our democracy system. Revolt and rebellion thrived off of the massive hate towards the kingdom.

But luckily for Illéa, the country was about to get their wish- a new king was coming to the throne.

In the past, many a king had used the philosophy of the Selection to reunite our kingdom during tough times. For some, it worked, for others, it didn't. But the harmony of the thirty-five provinces coming together, each represented by their own girl in a fight for the king, was apparently supposed to heal the internal wounds that had been inflicted upon our country. I disagreed on my the thinking behind it, comparing it to putting a band-aid over a bullet hole- how could a competition between provinces- for a new king to rise to the throne and find a wife, no less- heal the innermost cuts that plagued our country? Unsurprisingly, my decision was outvoted, and we were having a Selection.

Not that I really minded. I mean, it wasn't a surprise that I was going to have a Selection- hell, it was only a matter of time. Nineteen or twenty was the age that it traditionally happened, so I waited with bated breath for the announcement that the contest to find my wife was going to begin. But seriously, come on, what guy wouldn't say no to having thirty-five beautiful girls stay at his house (or in my case, palace), especially with the intentions of dating- and eventually marrying- them?

The only thing was that I would probably enjoy the experience a hell of a lot more _if_ my mother wasn't being so damn critical.

"No, you idiot!" she shrieked at the interior designer who was creating the girl's room layout. "What are you thinking? What sort of bloody fool would even consider using green as the accent colour for the rooms?" Her British accent- my mother was formerly a socialite from England- intensified when she yelled, making her voice thicker and a bit harder to understand.

The designer flinched, and was cowering against the wall of one of the rooms that would host the guests. I didn't blame him- oftentimes, I felt the same way. You wanted to stay on the good side of my mother. "O-of course, Your Majesty," he stammered, refusing to meet the Queen's eyes as he nervously shuffled the paint swatch to the end of the pile. "So sorry, so sorry. I-I'll change it instantly. What about bright pink for the whole room, with white trim?"

"Better," the Queen had snarled. "It would be much better, _if_ the Selected were six years old! Perhaps I should consider another designer if you don't shape up!" Even without the anger on her face, she looked intimidating in her deep green gown and the four-and-a-half-inch heels that caused her to be about a foot taller than almost everyone else in the palace.

"Mom," I cautioned, laying a hand on the lacy green fabric of her dress sleeve. "It's okay. This designer is great- look how he did with the bathrooms!" Yesterday, the poor man had endured her endless screeching about the layouts for the Selected's private bathrooms. The end result did leave a lovely impression on the Queen, who instantly hired him to create the bedroom as well.

"We could just do baby blue and a sensual grey like you originally suggested," I continued, flashing a smile at the short Italian designer, who was nervously searching through the paint swatches to find the colours I suggested. She looked a little more enthusiastic about this idea and relaxed, restricting her hostility to glaring daggers at the designer. When her back was turned, the man flashed me a grateful grin, which I returned with a wink. My mother was tough to deal with if you didn't know how to treat her.

The morning was largely successful- we finished the room designs for the Selected, and my mother had only yelled at the designer thirteen times, threatened to fire him six times and slapped him once (the designer was in tears of frustration by that point). After that, we had lunch (pork-stuffed pablano peppers and a simple side salad of arugula and cherry tomatoes) before it was time to prepare for the _Report_.

"He should wear the tuxedo and plaid tie that he wore for Angelica's birthday last year." As usual, my mother was talking about me as though I wasn't in the room, a habit that annoyed me but never ceased despite my pleading. "You know, the black one with the emblem sewn into the breast?"

This described about fifty percent of my suits, but the stylists were in no place to argue. I suited up in the outfit my mother wanted me to (the stylists only found the one she wanted on the fifth try- this resulted in a lot of angry yelling about their disobedience and incompetence) and then headed out to set of the _Report_ beside my mother, who still had a filthy scowl covering her face.

The _Report_ was as boringly predictable as usual. After being debriefed on the lines for my announcement at the end, I sat through forty-five minutes of talk about Illéa's current financial state, our plans to update the school curriculum and the contamination in the Fennley water pipes. After a long, exasperating discussion about the recent increase in death from liver complications, Darren Fadaye- the host of the _Illéan Capital Report_ \- finally called me to the front of the set with a "special announcement."

I hopped off my seat beside my father and strode confidently forward until I was standing beside Darren, trying to project an image of calm self-assurance. I flashed a flirtatious smile at the camera, pausing for a moment before turning to Darren, forcing myself to resist the urge to fidget and stretch; there was a kink in my back from sitting still for so long. I mentally rehearsed the lines of my announcement while I waited for Darren to open for me as planned.

"So," Darren began, flashing his trademark toothy grin at the camera. "Here we have him, folks! Our Crown Prince Ashton James Schreave. Your Majesty, rumour has it that you have a special announcement for us." His voice went dangerously low at the end, and he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"Right you are, Darren!" I responded swiftly, keeping my killer smile focused on the crowd. I had long since trained myself not to squint in the bright lights of the camera, and to remain still and poised. "I am very proud of my country, and all we have done and gained in the past, as well as what we are to accomplish in the future. We have an incredible history and are one of the best places to live in the world, and I look forward to being able to take the throne and lead our country." I paused for a moment to let my words sink in and gather suspense.

"One of the most important things for a king to have is a queen." I paused again, allowing the tension to build once more before I unleashed the big news. "Anyone between the ages sixteen and twenty may enroll for my Selection."

There's a smattering of pre-planned applause and cheering from my mother, father and siblings, as well as from the cast and set workers who didn't have their hands full. My grin grows bigger, and once the clapping fades out, I continue.

"The application forms have been sent out and should reach all those eligible within one to three days. Though it isn't mandatory for you to join, I'd appreciate for each and every lady in Illéa to apply for the opportunity to be my wife." I paused again, casting a brief and concerned glance at the clock counting down to the end of the report; there's only thirty seconds until the Report ends. Quickly, I sign off. "I hope to see your applications soon! Good night, Illéa!" The cameras hover on my brilliant grin. I hold it for a moment, and then the telltale click of the camera signals that the Report is over.

I plan on heading to my room for the night- I'm exhausted from a day of planning, and kind of hope for a quiet night without my mother breathing down my neck. I set off down the hallway when a sharp poke in my back makes me turn around.

"Good job." My mother's voice is curt, but she sounds oddly distant and apprehensive. "But is it good enough?" The last part is rhetorical and not really directed at me, so I just watch as she turns around and stalks down the hallway. There's something suspicious and off about her, but I have a feeling I'm just imagining things.

I don't dwell on it. Right now, the only thing I need is sleep- I daresay I won't get a whole lot of it during the Selection.

* * *

 **Anyways, hope you enjoyed! I wrote this in the car, so it's not my best work, but I hope you liked it nonetheless. For those of you who want to submit, the rules and form are below. PLEASE READ THE RULES. THERE AREN'T A LOT AND THEY ARE EASY TO FOLLOW.**

 **RULES**

 **1. Please send all characters to me in a PM. No exceptions, because I will need to communicate with you about your character and it's necessary that I do so in a PM.**

 **2. No plagiarism. This includes no carbon copies of Eadlyn or America. It also means don't copy someone else's characters within another SYOC (or this one too), and I prefer you not to remake your own characters either.**

 **3. DIVERSITY. Racial diversity, sexual/gender identity diversity, appearance diversity, personality diversity, casté and job diversity. Cliche characters will be unlikely to be accepted and won't be Main/Elite characters. Also, don't make your characters excessively diverse. And keep it realistic.**

 **4. Not technically a rule, but the longer your form the more likely your character is going to be a main character, as I'll have more material to work with.**

 **5. I reserve the right to refuse (and eliminate eventually) characters. THIS IS HIGHLY UNLIKELY SO DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT. I will let you know once I have all my characters what characters will be mains, because I'll have to correspond with you regularly about certain quirks and whether I'm writing them properly. If there are empty spots, I'll put my own characters in that are just throwaways.**

 **NOTE: I have one of my own characters in the story as one of the Selected. She is imperative to the plot of the story and not the Selected part- the Illéa-collapsing-part. She likely won't win. Hope that doesn't throw you off.**

 **FORM**

 **Full Name:**

 **Nickname:**

 **Date of Birth:**

 **Province (check the open provinces on my profile):**

 **Caste:**

 **Sexual and Gender Identity:**

 **Job (DIVERSITY IS NECESSARY; I MAY ASK YOU TO CHANGE IT IF IT ISN'T DIVERSE):**

 **Reason for Choosing Job:**

 **Face Claim:**

 **Hair:**

 **Eyes:**

 **Height:**

 **Weight:**

 **Body Shape:**

 **Other Facial Features:**

 **Clothing Style before Selection:**

 **Clothing Style during Selection:**

 **Makeup Style:**

 **Makeover Changes:**

 **Tattoos and Piercings:**

 **Personality:**

 **Interesting Character Facts::**

 **History:**

 **Ethnicity:**

 **Health Issues (e.g. allergies):**

 **Languages Spoken:**

 **Family Members (Name, Age, Job, Appearance, Personality and Relationship with Character):**

 **Best Friends** **(Name, Age, Job, Appearance, Personality and Relationship with Character):**

 **Past Relationships** **(Name, Age, Job, Appearance, Personality and Relationship with Character)**

 **Likes/Talents/Hobbies/Interests:**

 **Dislikes/Uninterests**

 **Pets:**

 **Thoughts on the Prince:**

 **Opinion on their Maids:**

 **Reason for Entering:**

 **Personal Items:**

 **Other:**

 **Note: There will be a Pinterest page for this. The link is www . pinterest monotonicrainbow (remove the spaces). If you have a Pinterest account, you can follow me and we can make a Pinterest board for the character you submit (or if it's okay with you and you don't have a Pinterest account, I'll just do it myself)**

 **Shoutout to x x . Scarlett (there are no spaces in the name, sorry about that)- she made the form and I HIGHLY ADVISE YOU CHECK OUT HER AWESOME STORY _The Unbreakables._ It's really good!**

 **Hope this isn't too long for you guys. I'd appreciate it if you dropped a review and a character! Anyways, have a great day or night! Ciao! (For those of you who don't know, Ciao is "goodbye" in Italian).**


	2. Over You (Ivelisse Faye Whitley-Patters)

**FIRSTLY, THANK YOU FOR THE SUPPORT I HAVE RECEIVED ON THIS STORY. ONLY ABOUT 15 SPOTS LEFT- I LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING THEM GET FILLED! Secondly, apologies for posting it so late- FanFiction wasn't letting me log in but it works now so yay I'm good.**

 **Apologies; this chapter isn't very long and I found it to be a bit rushed, so I hope it's okay for you guys.**

 **Longer author's note is at that bottom.**

 **I don't own the Selection series. This character is Ivelisse Faye Whittley-Patters by Ryaspirit. She's awesome! Thanks!**

* * *

I stare into the mirror.

A girl gazes at me, her light brown eyes boring into mine. She is fairly plain- not unattractive, per se, but plain. Her hair is a dull red, like a spark slowly beginning to burn out, and it is atop her head in a messy bun. Stray pieces hang out, dangling along the sides of her face, framing her gentle traits. Her facial features are small and have just a hint of a cocky expression- she has a tiny, prim little mouth is slightly upturned at the corners and her eyebrows are naturally raised, taunting and challenging anyone and everyone about nothing in particular. The entirety of the mirror girl's physiognomy is covered with a smattering of freckles- well, more than a smattering; a _bounteous_ amount of freckles- that conceal her cheeks, nose, forehead and chin.

The mirror girl wears a comfy grey sweater with some sort of hockey logo on it; her Dad cheers for them, not her, and he bought her the sweater when they once went to a game. She also wears navy blue skinny jeans with stylistically frayed material near her hips. All the same, she appears very comfortable in her nonchalant choice of clothing.

The corners of my smirking mouth pull up into a genuine grin, and the mirror girl matches my bright smile. Deeming myself ready for another day at school- only two more months until I could escape the hell once and for all!- I headed out of the bathroom, dragging my fingers across the full body mirror as I went. My fingers meet that of the mirror girl, and we exchange one more quiet smile before she disappears and I continue on alone.

The stairs to go down to the main floor of the house are right outside the bathroom door, and head directly down into the kitchen (convenient for midnight snacks, breakfast in bed and sleepy teenagers who are starving half to death). My hand clutches the honey coloured banister as I slowly set out down the steps, relishing the feeling of my feet sinking into the white shag carpet.

As soon as I get downstairs, my senses are overwhelmed with the rich aroma of bacon sizzling on the stove. I can hear the crackling of the fat, and can sense my already-huge appetite drastically rising. It isn't often that one of my fathers or I will get up early to cook such an extravagant breakfast, so when they do, we luxuriate in the opportunity. Piles of pancakes, a bowl of fruit salad and breakfast sausage are already on the counters, just waiting to be served and eaten.

"Breakfast!" my Dad sings, whirling around from where he was attending the bacon to look at me. "My, my, Ivy, you made it in perfect time. The bacon was ready at the exact moment you got down here!"

I give my Dad an easy grin, laughing inwardly at his perkiness. My first father, Cal, is constantly peppy and energetic, despite working long hours as a chef. He's the more easygoing of my two dads and is also much better at waking up early than my other father, Diego. I assume he must have the morning off today; most of the time he's gone for work by now.

"Sixth sense," I tease, helping myself to three of the fatty strips of meat. As soon as I bite into the first piece, I'm instantly in heaven; Dad works as a assistant sous chef in a fairly prestigious restaurants in northeastern Ottaro, and to be graced with his splendiferous cooking each day is a treat that my small family thrives in.

Dad adds a scoop of fruit salad and a pancake onto my plate, and I instantly douse them in maple syrup. I dip the strips of bacon into the sweet, candy-like liquid as well, enjoying the way the flavours melded together. The pancake is sweet, light and fluffy, and the fruit is juicy (if not a bit underripe). I relish the exquisite meal, lost in thought as Dad reads the newspaper and sips his coffee. These tranquil moments of peace are nice, offering me an inner sense of balance and peace that often escapes me during the stress of the school day.

"Oh, honey, you should go," Dad says after about ten minutes, casting a worried glance at the clock. "Wouldn't want you to be late for school. Do you need a ride, or are you fine walking?" He places the last of the pancakes he was cooking onto a plate, arranging them in a small tower and topping it with butter, fresh fruit and syrup in what is a most decidedly expertise and over-the-top arrangement.

"I can walk," I assure him. "Thanks for cooking breakfast." Striding up beside him, I plant a kiss on his cheek and put my plate in the dishwasher before running out the door, heading for school.

* * *

The class can't focus today.

Ms. Brenning fixes the class with her trademark eagle-eyed glare, pausing her long lecture on Shakespeare's Sonnet 18. Her dark eyes search the class for the chatty perpetrators who dare disrupt her lesson, causing most of the class to shrivel back into their seats and wait for her to continue with her oration before resuming their confabulations.

She drones on for about ten more minutes and I valiantly try to take notes, but the girls on either side of my desk are talking increasingly loudly and I can't focus. Deciding that trying to continue to listening to the lesson was a lost cause, I tuck the sheet of notes in my binder and turn to Britney, a nice girl who sits beside me in almost of all my classes. I don't hang out with her and we aren't in the same 'social clique,' but she's friendly enough, I guess.

"Brit," I hiss, trying to keep my voice low to avoid catching Ms. Brenning's evil eye. "What are they all talking about?"

The blonde flicks her head towards me. I notice she's wearing more makeup than normal, and her hair is curled in oddly precise waves. She wears a bright pink shirt with long sleeves and a deep neck that crosses up from her midsection to her neck. Her attire seems oddly seductive and fancy for a plain old high school, even for her.

"Haven't you heard?" Britney's voice was more enthusiastic and upbeat than normal; she speaks so quickly I can barely understand her. "The Selection. There has been a _ton_ of breakups, and everyone's applying for it. Jack and Kylie, Aiysha and Aerowyn, Trent and Blaire, Claudette and Moore- all split, because they went to all enter the Selection. All the girls have been talking about what they're going to wear and what they're going to put on their applications the whole day." Brit's brown eyes glitter with cold enthusiasm, and she straightens her shirt so that the deep v-neck reveals more of her chest and abdomen.

I don't really care for gossip, but hearing about the Selection surprises me. I'd forgotten all about it- with all that had gone on in the past few weeks, I'd focused more on keeping thoughts more out of my head as opposed to letting them in. At the time of when the news came out- Friday night at the _Report_ \- I hadn't even considered the news; I didn't think I was _ready_ then. Now that I think about it, I'm not so sure.

I open my mouth to respond, but Ms. Brenning beats me to it.

"One more word out of _anyone_ and it's detention for you all!" she shouts, her voice carrying through the now-silent classroom. Looking behind, I can see the meek gazes of my classmates and pray that they don't land us in trouble.

Class ends with the shrieking of the bell, and the noisy hordes of hormonal teenagers grabs their things and file out into the hall, where the lunchtime rush begins. Clumps of sweaty bodies progress through the wide straightaway towards the cafeteria, making it difficult to move through the mass of bodies proceeding towards the cafeteria. I catch a strong whiff of body odour and plug my nose as I make my way to my locker, being careful not to drop my textbooks or binder.

A tall, thickset body slams into me, and I drop my binder on the floor. Lined paper and class notes spill out of it, sliding along the cool flecked tile. I look on in despair as I watch my papers kicked and stepped on, my neat and organized notes now torn and covered in footprints.

My biggest regret was looking up.

Above me, lip curling with contempt, I see a sickly familiar face. _Lydia-_ damn, Lydia of all people- brushes back a lock of auburn hair and sneers at me, though I'm pretty sure I catch a ghost of a frown on her pointed physiognomy. As soon as I recognize her, I shrink back, crouching my head and firmly ignoring her presence. I want to say something, but I'm not sure what- either way, my throat has gone dry. I shut my eyes and grab my papers, then race to my locker, flinging my stuff inside before running down the crowded hallway to the bathroom.

Time seems to go in equally fast and slow.

I focus on clearing my mind. I push out my thoughts and direct my cynosure towards nothing, picturing a pure white expanse in my mind. I do not paint the canvas or allow thoughts to blemish it. I hold the canvas in my mind, pushing away my emotions and my ideas and any notions regarding _her,_ the person who I cannot allow myself to think about and tarnish any hope of happiness.

As soon as I get into the bathroom stall, my defense against thoughts crumbles and disappears.

Tears fall down my face, running down my freckled cheeks and then over the top of my lip. I lean against the wall of the stall, trying to breathe, trying to forget, but it's hard to forget something when it's the only thing you can remember. After a moment of controlled breathing, the tears stop and the memories flow.

I can picture her as clear as the day. Her porcelain skin, her auburn hair, and her blue eyes- so charming, so sweet, so deceiving. I can smell her fruity shampoo and her warm, cinnamon breath. I can hear her singsong voice- the voice that grew hard as stone when she was angry but melted into soft chocolate when she was sympathetic or in a good mood. The thought of her dry humour makes my eyes wet, but the thought of her betrayal makes me sob.

The memories are as vivid as though they happened yesterday, though they feel faded and outdated when I look back on those times, barely six weeks ago. Six long weeks ago, I was stuck inside the closet- only my parents knowing how I felt, and select few at a former school. My partial exit from the dark shadow of secrecy was not what I had hoped for, and quite decidedly the exact opposite of what I had hoped for and imagined.

Somehow, Chrome Walsh found out- thank the lord he didn't tell anyone- and he cornered me, doing things to me that I won't repeat and can't bear to describe. He tried to change me, tried force me to do things and to change things I had told no one ever before- using rather unorthodox and unethical methods that took me and spat me out in the lowest form possible. Lydia was there for me, so I confessed.

I am bisexual.

"Abnormal," I murmur to myself. "Freak."

I loved her. At least, I thought I did. The day I met her, I was interested. The first time I talked to her, I was intrigued. Once I got to know her, I was certain; I could just _feel_ it: there was something special about us. Even the mere notion was more and everything and nothing that I could ever consider expecting. The only problem was that she was in a heterosexual relationship, and I was stuck in the closet.

We were friends. I shouldn't have been greedy or made her uncomfortable, even after I was harassed for my sexuality. I shouldn't have been so selfish to tell her, of all damn things- hell, what was I thinking?

I thought I had her under the palm of my hand. She was gone within a week.

"I like you too," she had said. "I'm just not ready for such a relationship."

As it turned out, she wasn't ready. She didn't like me- she just didn't want to hurt my feelings. And I pushed her. I got angry over something that was merely her concern for me, and I drove her away . She didn't come back.

I had wanted nothing more than for her to return to me and set things the way they used to be. However, I'd come to terms with the realization that it was no longer a possibility, so that left only one other option: to get over her.

"What're you going to wear for the Selection?" A giggle from the stall beside me hushes me instantly, and I cease my sniffling to prevent myself from attracting attention. I recognize the speaker to be Alena, a dark-haired girl with ice blue eyes- and then what she says clicks.

It was like the flicking of a light switch- I could see exactly what I had been missing before. I need to get over Lydia. I liked her, but I messed up; it wasn't a possibility anymore for us to be together. I needed to prove to myself that I was able to continue on, to live without her, to show myself that I was independent and could carry on without one little person. And I had one idea how to do that: The Selection.

The rest of the day continued without fault, but it seemed to drag on for a week. I could barely concentrate during class; all I could focus on was moving on and the notion of being free from the weight that was chained to my soul. Lydia's face continuously poked into my thoughts, her brilliant smile and whispered words trying to chase me away from what I was going to do. But I knew I was stronger, so I pushed through.

I am unsurprised to see that the house is empty when I arrive at home. Dad and Pa are still both at work, and I don't expect them to get home until much later. I drop my backpack at the foot of the stairs and race upstairs to my room. A newfound eagerness to rid myself of this burden encourages me. I immediately strip out of my school clothes, prying my skinny jeans off of my thighs and releasing my red hair from the messy bun.

I considered my outfit all through band (while I pretended to play the trumpet). Professional models always say that going with a simple but flattering outfit is the best, so I choose some simple-but-slightly-fancy clothes that I love. I begin with white skinny jeans- a staple of my wardrobe- and then select a jean-blue shirt with white buttons and rolled sleeves. I accent the whole outfit with a braided leather bracelet and a black necklace with a large gold-green pendant and pink flowers. The whole ensemble looks classy but casual, relaxed but flattering and appealing but with an impactful statement.

I find my Application in the mail, after sifting through large piles of bills and letters from friends. The parchment is of good quality, and my fingers lovingly caress it as I read the letter.

 _The recent census has confirmed that a single woman between the ages of sixteen and twenty currently resides in your home. We would like to make you aware of an upcoming opportunity to honor the great nation of Illéa. Our beloved prince, Ashton Schreave, is coming of age this month. As he ventures into this new part of his life, he hopes to move forward with a partner, to marry a true Daughter of_ _Illéa_ _. If your eligible daughter, sister, or charge is interested in possibly becoming the bride of Prince Ashton and the adored princess of Illéa, please fill out the enclosed form and return it to your local Province Services Office. One woman from each province will be drawn at random to meet the prince. Participants will be housed at the lovely Illéa Palace in Angeles for the duration of their stay. The families of each participant will be generously compensated for their service to the royal family._

Grabbing my fancy black pen, I immediately proceed to x out the letter. The questions are detailed but don't pry, and I don't really hesitate about any of the questions. I manage to get it done within ten minutes.

Name: Ivelisse Faye Whittley-Patters

Age: 16

Caste: 4

Height: 5'5"

Weight: 120 lbs

Hair Colour: Red

Eye Colour: Light Brown

Languages Spoken: English, French

Highest Completed Grade Level: Grade 10

Special Skills and Interests: Poetry, Astrology, Debates, Comedy Movies, Stars, Food, Soccer, Field Hockey, Football, Volleyball

I give my Application one last overview, and then, deciding it satisfactory, fold it in half and head out the door.

* * *

I don't know the girl in the picture.

A tiny screen overhead shows the picture that they took of me. But I swear, that girl in the picture must be someone else- she is a different Ivelisse than the Ivelisse I know and am. She doesn't look tired, and her eyes are alight- a brilliant change from the dull, lacklustre sight they once were. Her posture is straight and her head is held high- she doesn't look beaten down, guilty, or sad and ashamed. She looks confident and careless, and she has a cheeky grin that is both innocent but mischievous. The photo is nostalgic- I feel as though I know her from a time long before, and have only now rediscovered her presence within me.

When I walk away, I feel a million times lighter, like I could fly away if I wanted to. There's a sense of accomplishment mixed in with the freedom, and pure, undiluted satisfaction and emotional liberation flow through me.

I have let her go.

* * *

 **Anyways, thanks for reading! I hope you liked it!**

 **Please note that I will no longer be accepting redheads. I will be aiming to get on top of things and finishing up adding to the lists and planning out my characters. My next chapter should be out in two weeks (I hope. You can never trust me with this sort of thing :)**

 **As well, all applications must be longer than 1 PM or I won't accept it.**

 **Anyways, thanks for all the submitters and it would be great if you sent a review or a character! Bye!**


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